


Queen of Scars, Queen of the Night

by clutzycricket



Series: Pathways and Maybes [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Milady's plans are the best, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Polyamory, Pre/Post/It's Complicated Relationships, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years, some things change, a rhythm grows- the house with the walled garden is a second home, D'artagnan is a father. Others don't- Aramis still forgets to dodge, the pups still launch themselves at the world, and Rhaenys loses bits of herself to the poison in her veins.</p><p>But they make a good run of it, as long as they don't think too hard on the future. Until a woman is found bloodless and whispers of a plague begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Scars, Queen of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> In "Words Lightly Thrown", which you can find by hitting the previous story button in the series links, two characters show up for a cameo*, and mention a set of complicated events that happen that mean they were turned. The reviews I got on here and tumblr were "...Er, Musketeers! Vampires? More?"
> 
> This is that story.
> 
> *It was supposed to be a cameo, that story was supposed to be a 1000 words. So was this...

One.

They had a good run of it, Porthos thought. Oh, the last few years hadn’t been quiet, but their ragtag family had survived until now. Athos was Captain, the new recruits viewing him the same way they'd seen Treville. (And didn't Porthos love mocking him for that- in private, of course.) D'artagnan and Constance had a little girl trailing underfoot,  and Snow had finally married his huntress. And he and Aramis snuck to the walled off house with the healer inside, listening to her cluck over their injuries and laugh at their misadventures.

Then Flea sent a message, not to the barracks, but to the house with the garden, to Rhaenys, who fed the boy with Marie’s pastries, took him as an escort to the barracks, and met Porthos and Aramis with her face drawn, the weight of a pistol marring the folds of her skirts.

“It was addressed to all three of us,” she said, quietly, handing Porthos the shaky note. “It seems I’ve made a name for myself as a healer. But Porthos, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“No warning for me?” Aramis asked.

She glared. “Would you listen to a warning?”

Athos, who had seen her come in, smiled. “He never does.”

The patient was one of the better-off thieves, who had been found half-collapsed on the edges of the Court of Miracles, when she had been seen hale and healthy an hour before. She was pale and listless, and Rhaenys had Aramis hold up the light while she ran her hands up the woman’s throat.

“Flea?” Porthos saw the stricken look on Rhaenys’ face, the murmured prayer.

“Garlic flowers, wild roses,” Rhaenys said, voice strident and losing the carefully taught polish to her French. “Beef broth- I’ll pay if needed, because we need her to rally. We need to get details.” She pulled up the neckline of her dress.

“There is a monster in Paris,” she added, looking directly at Flea.

“She said something about red eyes, and those marks on her throat weren’t made by any knife I ever saw,” the blonde agreed. “I heard you dealt in odd things.”

**Two.**

Athos had sighed when they told him what was going on. “Did you tell your brother what is going on?”

“That I believe a… revenant is wandering Paris? He’ll be furious and pack me off to London,” Rhaenys said. They were sitting in her kitchen, eating. Well, Aramis was putting food on her plate because she wasn’t eating, and Porthos was gratefully eating Marie’s cooking.

Ygritte was sitting on the counter, tearing up a roll. “Snow will have to be told sometime.”

“As long as I can come up with a good argument to stay,” Rhaenys said, as she stopped and listened to something none of them could here.

They were getting used to it- it got a bit worse over the years, her seeing or hearing things before they did. It was sharper at night, and the first time they had noticed her flinch, there had been a game made of it, a way of keeping up with training. 

“There are twenty cases of people who are probably infected with the same… thing that infected you,” Jon Snow snarled, then stopped, staring at them all. “You were going to tell me, right?”

“Tonight, yes,”  D’artagnan agreed. “Your sister merely wanted us on her side when you tried to get her packed off to England.”

“I wouldn’t…” he started, then stopped at their skeptical looks. “Fine.”

“So, what’s the plan?” the pup asked.

“Well, we could try to find out what she was trying to steal?” Porthos pointed out. “Assuming it was what Diane was killed for.”

“It probably was,” Athos thought about it. “Is there anything they would go after?”

“There are a few objects of power in Paris,” Rhaenys mused. “I can make a list, and we could work from there…”

**Three.**

There was a torc and a necklace, supposedly made of braided metals and a pattern that settles in when the viewer’s eye lingers too long.

Because of revenant activity, which was what tipped it to the top of their list over a plain wooden cup that transforms liquids, a bundle of thorns in a case of cloudy glass, and a purple stone necklace with a gold charm that is possibly Egyptian.

The story is that there was there was a lady who loved hunting, who loved it so that she ignored the warnings and went a riding in the wrong woods on the eve of her wedding, and was swept up by Arawn, lord of the Wild Hunt, and became Matilda of the Night, in turn sweeping up the lost souls of the damned.

“That doesn’t sound alarming at all,” Aramis said, as Rhaenys translated the text. “So where is it being kept?”

“In the palace,” Athos said, looking at a record next to her.

D’artagnan looked at him as if he was joking. It was endearing, how he kept hoping for that.

“So we do what?” Porthos asked, looking between them all.

“Milady has been seen,” Aramis said slowly.

“I don’t suppose that is too much of a coincidence?” Snow asked. He had a slight scar from her pistol three years ago- they were fairly certain it had been intended as a warning shot.

The plotting was put on hold when a messenger from Constance warning of plague in the palace, and a royal summons in the works.

 **Four**.

Rhaenys dressed as a duke’s daughter to meet the King, pulling her hair in an approximation of the Court style, the Targaryen dragon in onyx and ruby peeking out in her earrings, a mix of grey pearls and rubies in a rope around her throat.

She still pulled a dagger out of her red and bronze silks, much to the bafflement of the Red Guard. Porthos and Aramis shared a grin.

“You wanted an expert, don’t expect her to be delicate,” Porthos pointed out. “At least this one doesn’t cause explosions.”

“That was my line,” Aramis protested.

“Lady Rhaenys Targaryen,” she said, “Of Dragonstone and Sunspear.” She was no longer her brother’s heir- he had married and had four small children of his own, now.

She bowed the the royals, a proper diplomat’s bow, and this entire thing was reminding Porthos that she had been raised very differently than even Athos. The Dukes of Dragonstone, Ygritte had said, were swords of the king, as fierce and as cunning as their dragon sigils, and her parents had been diplomats. She didn’t get it, really, but Jon and Rhaenys had fought and bled with her, and she wanted to see the world.

The greetings were done, and finally the reason this was a private audience became clear.

“There is talk of monsters stalking our streets,” the King said, looking more tired than usual. “Monsters that drain the blood and lives of our people, spreading their foulness like a sickness.”

“Aye,” Rhaenys said. “We have been trying to track them, but so far we have only met solitary creatures, and we have no idea of their full numbers. They shouldn’t,” she frowned, “be spreading this quickly. There are vague tales, but none I would have given credence to before this. They strike once, perhaps, but infections are rarer, and if they fear it, they tear the soul apart.” She glances at the Queen. “I beg your pardon.”

“No, no, it is better to know,” the Queen said, looking thoughtful. “And that does seem important to know.”

Aramis nods. Of course he does- he and the Queen have perhaps, over the years, fallen out of that pedestal love that is in the old stories, of a knight and his lady, but there is still a deep friendship and respect that will never wither.

“How would you know this?” The King asked.

“Studies,” Rhaenys said. “I was attacked, once, at my stepmother’s command, and the creature was killed.” She fingered the high collar of her gown, not quite any one style. “There is a group that dedicates themselves towards fighting these creatures. I am amazed none have come to Paris already- I know one is based out of London.”

“Could we summon this man?” the King asked.

She nodded. “Of course, though if he has not come, it might mean that he is already abroad.”

“And…” The King looks intent, despite the pallor of his face.Porthos is sharply reminded of the rumors that the King is ill, dying, even, and prays that it isn’t so. That Rhaenys could use what no one dares call magic to save him- the Queen’s sons are still but a child. “I ask that you gather what protections you know of to keep my wife and children safe.”

“Your Majesty,” she said, looking utterly sincere, “It would be my pleasure.”

**Five.**

Anne finds Athos that night, a pistol gleaming in her hand and a wary look on her face. “I need to speak with you.”

He looks at her. “I thought,” he said, tired of this game, “that you were in… Russia, I believe? Gone not even six weeks, a new record for you.”

“I was hired for a job,” Anne said. “Waylaid would probably be a better term for it. Only I have learned that I was not the only person hired for the task, and at least one of my competitors were killed.”

“Diane of the Court of Miracles?” Athos asked, wondering if he would surprise her.

“Yes. I also think that a Shadrich of England was killed, though his cohorts burned his body and won’t speak of his last days,” Anne said, looking the faintest bit amused. “They would be terrible card players, though- I fancy even that pretty Scots lad could read their bluffs.”

He shook his head. “So you think he was involved. Are you asking for protection?” He could possibly ask Lady Rhaenys- her amusement at the antics of his merry band of lunatics seemed boundless enough, and Ygritte and Amelie were hard to fool. He could also post Snow, Aramis, and Porthos there as guards with no one being the wiser.

Constance, of course, would possibly shoot him, but that was why he left her to D’artagnan.

“I can handle a bit of danger,” Anne said.

“Mmm, but I prefer to have you were I can see you,” Athos said. “I seem to get shot less.”

She smiled at that, looking feline. “Where did you have in mind?”

 **Six**.

Anne isn’t quite sure what to make of the Targaryen girl. Oh, she knows the gossip, that she was the disgraced daughter of a duke, and she is fairly certain she is fucking both Porthos and Aramis- the wry looks and subtle jokes make it clear, even if they are currently being discreet.

But she clearly knows about Anne and her past, but she takes her in on Athos’ word, even if she shot the girl's brother.

One day, though, Aramis is brought in cursing and bleeding profusely from his arm, and the lovely midnight blue overgown is removed, and things start to become clear.

Without the top layer of clothing, Anne can see stark, silver scars like crescents peeking out from her neckline in an overlapping mess, reaching up to her throat.

“Was it a bite, was there blood, and can Porthos wake up Marie?” she asked, calmly. Porthos went to wake up the gregarious cook, and Athos and D’artagnan settled Aramis by the fire.

“Scratches,” D’artagnan said, pointing out the long narrow lines. “He shot them in the side, Athos got the one with his sword, Porthos a dagger to the heart.”

“Good,” Rhaenys said, studying it. “I’ll need it cleaned, but I don’t think it will need stitches- or even scar.”

“Ah, and I look so dashing with them,” Aramis said, mournfully. "I still want you to write paeans to my bravery."

“I still tell him he needs to learn to dodge better,” she said to Anne, who was startled into a laugh.

“I’m amazed he doesn’t have the practice,” Anne offered.

“I’m hurt,” Aramis said, uninjured hand to his heart. “Won’t anyone defend me?”

“No, I think they have a point,” Athos said, a rarity.

“I think that actually is a lesson you kept trying to teach me,” D’artagnan added.

Later, when the Musketeers went off to the barracks, the Targaryen woman put the bloodied rags and bucket together and sighed.

“You’ve seen this before,” Anne said.

“Just one,” Rhaenys said, hand over the scars. “It was enough.”

And was explanation enough for why she would take in a woman who could be hunted by those creatures.

 **Seven**.

The torc and the necklace should have been on record, but unfortunately the records vanished somewhere during the regency of Marie de Medici, and even the Queen’s trusted confidantes couldn’t ferret out the information.

Until Anne smiled a slightly terrifying smile, playing with her choker. “Do you know, I believe I know where it might be?”

“Where, Anne?” Athos asked.

“The Cardinal once was so indiscreet as to mention a hiding place for... heretical material, dating back to Catherine de Medici,” Milady answered. “And from what I remember, she was quite fond of the occult.”

“Aye,” Rhaenys said, sharing a puzzled look with Porthos. “You think it might be there?”

“Well, it was his terminology for it,” she answered. “And I can probably find it again.”

“Except for that bit where you were thrown out of the palace and banned from the King’s presence,” D’artagnan pointed out. Constance sighed and put a hand over her husband’s mouth.

“I can help her get around that,” Rhaenys waved a hand, looking exhausted. She had been preparing infusions for the King, explaining and preparing every herb in front of his doctors and the man himself. They all knew he hadn’t much time, and all she was doing was keeping him stronger for as long as possible. “A bit of costuming, a bit of the uncanny, we’ll be fine.”

“Take Porthos and Aramis with you,” Athos said, remembering Diane the thief’s labored breathing and Rhaenys’ jagged scars, imagining them on Anne before firmly killing the thoughts. He had no right to them.

**Eight.**

It was nightfall before Milady found the hidden safe, opening a wooden box with the torc and necklace.

“What are we going to do with them?” she asked, causing a pointed silence to fall over them.

“Destroy them?” Porthos suggested.

“Lock them where the revenants cannot reach?” Aramis suggested.

Rhaenys fired her pistol into the shadows, earning an inhuman snarl and a leap from the shadows. “We run!” she said. “The safe room, until dawn!”

“Our mistress is old, and can walk in daylight, and her consort older still,” the injured creature said. It looked like a soldier, still keeping military order and wearing an empty holster.

It leapt, and Rhaenys was between Milady and the dead man, her body making a sickening crack as she landed, before being carried off.

“Run,” Aramis snarled, “Don’t let them take it.”

“I won’t,” Milady said, a disquieting smile on her face. “I find I have a debt to pay.” She dipped her hand in the chest, the necklace tumbling through her fingers, seeming to glow with its own light. “All that power, in one little necklace…”

She tugged it over her curls before anyone could say a word, smiling as she seemed to flicker out of existance.

“Athos is going to kill us,” Porthos said, “and we’re going to deserve it.”

“We’ll find her,” Aramis promised, when they heard the scrape of boots on flagstone and the gleam of red eyes in the dark.

**Nine.**

Rhaenys couldn’t move her legs, and her cheek was burning, amidst a thousand other hurts.

But her hands worked, and she kept her eyes closed, trying to breathe. The uncanny was worked through items, mostly, but it relied on will. It was possible, if the need was dire enough, to do what she was doing.

She placed her hands on the floor, and focused, thinking of the sea, of pebbles skipping and sinking, falling, falling, falling, ignoring the burning feeling and the smell of cooked flesh.

He was sinking into the stone, halfway to his shins, bellowing. If she died, at least they hadn’t won…

“Stupid bitch, I hope my Family kills those friends of yours slowly,” he said, “Or did you think you were the only ones who came in groups?”

No, no, no…

He launched himself at her, one last punishing blow to her throat, crushing her windpipe.

**Ten.**

This was madness. Even knowing their weaknesses, the revenants had the upper hand in the battle, swift and sharper-eyed, and more of his men were falling then the dead ones.

He was trying to hold off two of them when Aramis leaps in, wild-smiled and quick, tipping his hat. “Captain. In need of some assistance?”

“He’s going to crash hard after the battle,” Porthos said. “And we need to find Milady and Rhaenys.”

“What’s wrong…” Athos starts at the fangs in his friend’s smile.

“Seems our friends had a little misunderstanding about the price of our loyalty. They took her, and Milady is wearing the Matilda necklace, which… a very powerful, immortal Milady?” Porthos tackled one of the revenants who had been about to bite a promising new recruit.

He was going to drink all the wine in Paris when this was through.

The pistol shot was disturbingly close to his ear, and since Aramis was currently in his line of vision, he looked over his shoulder expecting Anne.

Who did not disappoint, her hands bloodied and the pistol smoking. “I find I don’t relish the idea of a revenant making you yield to her,” she shrugged. “As pretty a picture as you might make on your knees.”

He glared at her. “I never should have suggested that you live in a house that would mean that much time with Ygritte and Aramis,” he muttered.

“Oh, you think I couldn’t have come up with that on my own?” she said.

“The torc?” he said, beheading one. The oil they had used on their blades was wearing off, and reapplying it would take too long.

“Safe,” she said, something bright and wicked in her eyes.

“You know it was dangerous to put that on without someone to take on the other half?” he said.

“That was almost touching,” she said dryly.

“Loss of control to the mantle of Matilda,” he said, realizing what he would need to do. “I know you would hate it, in your lucid moments.”

She stared at him for a moment, before pulling it out of a hidden skirt pocket. “Why?”

“Because we are each other’s burden to bear,” he said, wryly.

 **Eleven**.

“Rhaenys,” Porthos said, and she was pillowed against his back, forgetting something vastly important, but whatever it was could wait.

“She’s waking,” Aramis said, his knee digging into the small of her back, and she made a noise of protest, her teeth scraping into her lips.

She sat up, hands at her throat.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Porthos said, hands on her back. Someone had changed her out of her gown into a clean chemise, but they hadn’t kept their promise, and she had died and risen.

How could it be fine?

“Why didn’t you…?” she started, looking at them. Her hands were aching dully, and she starting tugging off the loose bandages.

“The entire group attacked the palace,” Aramis said, seriously, and something was subtly… off about him. “A guard got a message off. You actually killed one of the leaders- he was doing a feint when he was talking about his Mistress’ consort. Your… desperate intervention…”

“Magic,” Porthos said, grinning over Aramis’ shoulder. “You can say it.”

“I did read the original Hebrew and Greek translations, and they leaned more towards translations such as poisoner or necromancer,” Rhaenys added, wide eyes meant to suggest helpfulness.

“Killed him,” Porthos continued, because Aramis was about to be derailed and Rhaenys still hadn’t cottoned on yet. “The pup found you, took you to Constance. Milady killed the Mistress he was talking about.”

“So the artifacts are safe,” Rhaenys said, looking between them. “And… why do you look like you swallowed Old Nan’s apple cider?”

“Well, Milady decided to keep the Matilda necklace safe by wearing it, which is a very Milady plan,” Aramis said. She shook her head. “And Athos decided to counter her by wearing the Arawn torc.”

“...Ah,” Rhaenys said. “So they will spend the centuries driving each other mad, and I get to watch.”

“We do, too,” Porthos said, and she blinked. “We’re good, love, but even we can’t handle twenty to one odds when the twenty aren’t human.”

“Jon and D’artagnan?” she asked, studying her hands. There were black lines crisscrossing her hands, seeming thickest at her palm and squirming up to the back of her hands and wrists. At least they didn’t smell burnt anymore.

“Jon is currently nursing three cracked ribs and a broken leg,” Aramis said, something careful in his tone. “It gave us time to talk to you. D’artagnan is fine, just some bruises. Nothing like what you needed to heal from.” He looked terrified. “Rhaenys, you might not have come back.”

“Aramis, I died,” she argued.

“And were given a second chance, so we are going to use that chance,” he said. “For good and all that.”

“Nearly there, then you fell flat,” Porthos laughed, and she relaxed, just a little bit.

 **Twelve**.

No one spoke of that night outside of whispers and drunken tales no one believed, but Jon and Ygritte went home as soon as he was well enough to travel. Jon had spoken privately to Athos, who had not spoken a word to the man since.

The King died two months later. Tuberculosis, they said, but Rhaenys wondered, a little bit. But then again, sorcery always made her paranoid.

Besides Milady, who had vanished with the dawn, they stayed, of course, because she was no eyeless fool and because the new King was a child, but she waited for them to realize that one of their number was still human, and what that might mean.

 


End file.
